


Somewhere between the past and the future

by soy_em



Series: Wincestmas 2017 [5]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Jealous Dean Winchester, M/M, New Orleans, Possessive Behavior, Pre-Slash, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Weecest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-11
Updated: 2018-01-11
Packaged: 2019-03-03 15:34:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13344192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soy_em/pseuds/soy_em
Summary: “Don’t do anything stupid.”Their Dad shoots them a stern look as he heads out of their seedy motel room, just a stone’s throw away from the French Quarter and yet far enough to avoid the tourist rabble.Dean snorts. They’re in New Orleans. Stupid is required, as far as he’s concerned. He’s just turned 21, Sammy’s got a killer fake ID, and they’re in the land of cheap drinks and easy women.





	Somewhere between the past and the future

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SinnamonSpider](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SinnamonSpider/gifts).



> Title stolen from this quote about New Orleans:
> 
> _“If New Orleans is not fully in the mainstream of culture, neither is it fully in the mainstream of time. Lacking a well-defined present, it lives somewhere between its past and its future, as if uncertain whether to advance or to retreat. Perhaps it is its perpetual ambivalence that is its secret charm. Somewhere between Preservation Hall and the Superdome, between voodoo and cybernetics, New Orleans listens eagerly to the seductive promises of the future but keeps at least one foot firmly planted in its history, and in the end, conforms, like an artist, not to the world but to its own inner being–ever mindful of its personal style.” – Tom Robbins, Jitterbug Perfume, 1984_

“Don’t do anything stupid.” 

Their Dad shoots them a stern look as he heads out of their seedy motel room, just a stone’s throw away from the French Quarter and yet far enough to avoid the tourist rabble. 

Dean snorts. They’re in New Orleans. Stupid is _required_ , as far as he’s concerned. He’s just turned 21, Sammy’s got a killer fake ID, and they’re in the land of cheap drinks and easy women. Dad should know better than to leave them alone here, hunt or not; he should’ve left them so far out of town that the locals had barely even heard of New Orleans. 

But he hasn’t, so as far as Dean’s concerned, that means playtime. 

He waits the requisite half hour to make sure that Dad’s really gone, won’t be back for a forgotten shotgun or flask of holy water, and then he moves. 

“C’mon Sammy, drinkin’ time.”

***

It takes Dean longer than he expects to convince his brother, but he can’t conceive of leaving Sam out of this. Dean’s been wanting to come to New Orleans for years - who knows when they might get another chance to explore? So he argues and cajoles until he’s heading out of the motel with Sam tucked sticky under his arm, both of them dressed for the heat in just jeans and tshirts. 

Within minutes they can hear the noise, feel the buzz, of the French Quarter. It’s just a Tuesday evening, not even that late, but people stumble past them, cocktails in hand; dripping in beads and goodwill. 

Dean snags them a brightly coloured cocktail at the first open bar they come across, laughing at the look on Sam’s face. “Its New Orleans, Sammy, lighten up.”

“I’ve never seen you drink anything before that wasn’t brown or clear,” Sam retorts. “Let me enjoy my surprise for a minute.” He sticks his tongue out at Dean, and its already coloured a little purple.

“When in Rome,” Dean says expansively, and sets off again. He really loves the fact that you can just walk around with your drinks here.

They wander for a while, content to explore the Quarter in the deepening twilight. Dean pretends to world weariness most of the time, but here, even he can’t keep up the pretence; everything is beautiful, astounding, unique. Greenery drips from iron balconies, cascades down multi-coloured houses, and its all so old. He shivers at the thought of all the ghosts here, just waiting to explode into activity as soon as something triggered them. 

But Dad isn’t here to hunt a ghost - he’s here looking for a witch hiding in plain sight, a witch who’s been killing adulterous men across the south. Dean catches sight of one of the many voodoo shops lining the streets, this one designed to appeal to tourists, and scowls. He fricking hates witches. 

Soon, they’ve made their way to the centre of the action. Bourbon Street is already heaving, happy crowds milling about, sharing pleasantries and making new friends. Sam’s wide-eyed beside him, so close that his shoulder brushes Dean’s with every movement, and Dean looks at him with happy, neon-induced adoration. 

“C’mon kid, I know a place we gotta try.”

It’s getting vaguely towards late now, and they have to push their way into Pat O’Briens, but once Dean locates a waitress at the bar, his smile secures them two hurricanes in minutes. “Such a fucking flirt,” Sam complains, looking a little jealous. Dean tips his head back, laughing, and ruffles Sam’s hair. 

They soak up the atmosphere for a while, but Dean wants to sample as many famous bars as he can. “This is a ridiculous drink,” Sam complains, clutching the tall green drink with a wavery frown. He’s starting to look a little loose, usually tense limbs flowing and hands gesturing in a way Dean hasn’t seen for years. 

“You’re getting drinks bought for you, Sammy. Stop complaining.”

Sam rolls his eyes, but takes a big sip. He chokes a little as the lurid green mixture goes down. 

“Strong?” Dean asks.

“Yeah,” Sam coughs. Dean can’t help but laugh, taking a big mouthful of his own drink. It burns a little, despite the eye-watering sweetness, and he grins at Sam so wide that his brother is forced to smile back.

Things get a little fuzzy after that. They weave through the crowds, laughing, stopping to listen to a band here, a musician there. Sam’s always within touching distance, leaning into Dean; giggling into his neck. Sam’s always a happy drunk, when Dean lets him drink; its part of the reason Dean does it. He loves seeing his little brother lose the care, the attitude, he’s developed over the past few years.

They find themselves in another bar, neon lights whirling around a packed dance floor. The bartender thrusts two frozen daiquiris into Dean’s hands and he spins, looking for Sam. Panic floods his slow brain when he can’t see his brother anywhere in the crowd. 

Shoving the daiquiris onto a nearby table, he pushes through the crowds, scanning for Sam’s tall head. Sam’s not anywhere in the bar, and Dean’s pulse speeds up as he pushes his way outside. He slump with relief as he spots Sam, leaning against a wall opposite the bar, but then everything slams into laser focus.

Sam’s leaning back, head tipped up to look at an older man. The man is even taller than Sammy, big and bristling with gym-earned muscle, which he’s showing off in a tight white vest. He’s got his paws on Sam’s slim waist, keeping Sam pushed against the wall. He bends down to talk into Sam’s ear, and Sam giggles in response, cheeks visibly flushed. 

Red roars through Dean, because Sam’s only supposed to look at him like that. If anyone is going to be pinning his brother against walls, its him. They don’t talk about (or god forbid, _name_ ), this thing that shivers between them, that keeps them so close, almost tethered together; and they’ve certainly never acted on it, but Dean thought it was understood all the same. 

He stomps across the road, expecting Sam’s eyes to flick to his as they usually do, but Sam’s too busy flirting to notice. It stings. 

He pulls on the guy’s shoulder. “Hey,” Dean says. “Back the fuck off.” Sam’s eyes go wide.

“Why should I?” The guy keeps one hand easy on Sam’s hip, and Dean can see his thumb swiping back and forth across the smooth patch of skin.

“Because I said so. “

“Well he didn’t, so fuck off.” 

There’s a moment when a fight tingles in the air, the guy staring at Dean and Dean staring right back, each willing the other to look away. And then Sam pushes between them, huffing in annoyance. 

“Put your fucking dicks away,” he says, irritable, and stomps off down the street. Dean spares a moment to be amused at his brother’s sass, before he’s following after Sam, not sparing another glance for the guy they leave behind.

Sam disappears around a corner, and as soon as Dean’s off of Bourbon Street, Sam slams him into a wall.

“What the fuck was that, Dean?” 

Dean just blinks at his brother. He can’t bring himself to do it, can’t bring himself to shatter this thing between them. Sam’s still so young, so innocent; and it’s wrong. He musters all his willpower and resists in the only way he can: with silence. 

The noise of New Orleans whirls around them but the little world they inhabit is still. They’re pressed together so close that a shiver would have their bodies aligning. The moment ticks on, making Dean’s muscles tense; Sam staring into his eyes with all the intensity Dean loves. But Dean won’t do it, won’t make a move to sully his little brother with these feelings. 

“I didn’t fucking think so,” Sam says bitterly. He peels away from Dean, swiping his hand across his face angrily. “I’m going back to the motel.”

Dean sags against the wall, glad the threat has passed and yet heartsore, too. Sam’s almost out of sight before he manages to pull himself back to his feet, trailing his little brother home, tugged along by the bond that tethers them together. 

**Author's Note:**

> Come check out my [Tumblr](https://soy-em.tumblr.com/).


End file.
